


Thank You For The Music

by manycoloureddays



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9856208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manycoloureddays/pseuds/manycoloureddays
Summary: "Seamus’ voice sounds a lot like the cats that live in Dean’s block of flats; all passionate yowling and an absence of notes known to humankind."OR, 4 times a Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan sang, and 1 time a Thomas-Finnigan did.





	

**Author's Note:**

> thanks M, for the edit! and thanks ABBA, for the title, i couldn't resist!

Dean isn’t sure he’ll ever really get used to being a wizard. For one, there is all the magic that just never seems to have limits, or ends; never seems to stop surprising him, and hopefully never will. For another, never in a million years would alternate universe muggle Dean Thomas be able to go to the World Cup, but here he is, decked head to toe in the Irish team colours, face sore from smiling, and lying on something sharp. It turns out no matter how many extension charms you cast on a tent, it’s is still just a tent, and the only thing between his back and the ground is a bit of fabric, and the ground still has rocks on it.

“ _SOLDIERS ARE WE, WHOSE LIVES ARE PLEDGED TO IRELAND_.”

He is also listening to Seamus sing the Irish national anthem. Or, more accurately, listening to Seamus scream. Apparently the Irish national anthem must be yelled at the top of one’s lungs.

Seamus’ voice sounds a lot like the cats that live in Dean’s block of flats; all passionate yowling and an absence of notes known to humankind. He looks so happy though, head thrown back, face red with effort, that Dean doesn’t have the heart to tease him. Much. 

“Mate, what the bloody hell is that? How are you even making those sounds?” He grins up at Seamus, who is standing proud on a chair in corner.

“Fuck off, Thomas,” Seamus laughs. He throws his pillow at Dean’s face. “I have the voice of an angel.”

“Tone deaf angel, maybe - ” The rest of his sentence is lost as all the air rushes out of Dean’s lungs when Seamus lands knees first on his stomach. He sings more furiously the more Dean tries to wriggle out from under him, until they both collapse breathless, still aiming half hearted jabs at one another.

The rest of the evening goes mostly downhill from there - Dark Marks and Death Eaters and explanations of the sudden terror. But even in the depths of the forest, Seamus humming brings a smile to his face.

 

***

 

There is a moment, just one terrible hesitant moment, when Dean wonders if he made the wrong choice. He has had many moments like it over the last few months. Moments of wondering which decision brought him here: to a damp camp in the middle of nowhere, on the run from mass murderers and the government, to a torture dungeon, to a cottage by the sea. But then he hears a familiar shout, sees the crowd of battered and bruised students part until he finally lays eyes on Seamus, fresh from elbowing his way to the front, eyes bright, and the moment passes. Dean collapses into Seamus, or Seamus collapses into Dean, and the crowd fucks off to stare greedily at the next person with news from outside.

“Jesus fucking Christ and Merlin both,” Seamus swears into Dean’s chest. “It’s good to see you.”

He doesn’t say _I thought you were dead,_ or even _thank everyone you’re alive,_ and Dean is so stupidly grateful for that _._ They both think it, and they both know that, and saying it will only push the tears Dean has been holding in since Malfoy Manor, since Ted, since the summer, out, and he is not crying months worth of tears in front of everyone. 

“I know, mate. I know.” He takes a deep breath. Seamus smells like home, with a sidenote of something recently singed.

“You’re not allowed to do that again,” Seamus says, pulling back. Before Dean can fully react to the state of Seamus’ face, before he can even ask _which part am I not allowed to do?_ Seamus answers. He has missed having someone around who can read his mind, who thinks like him. Not that he wasn’t absolutely beyond grateful to have any company at all, but there is something incredibly comforting about someone ranting at him a mile a minute and expecting him to keep up. “Next time you decide to go on the run, I’m coming too. I am not being left behind again, okay?” 

“Sure, absolutely.” Dean nods, finding himself grinning. “Next time I go on the run from an evil bigoted autocrat and his evil mass murdering cronies you can come too.”

“That’s all I ask.”

 

And everything happens rather quickly after that. He manages to find a wand, and everything becomes a blur of planning and fighting and spells he hasn’t even heard of and ones he hoped he’d never have to use. But he doesn’t think he’s ever been as afraid as he is when people leave his side. He loses track of Seamus and he thinks he’s going to go out of his mind, and then he loses track of Parvati and it happens all over again. He thinks he sees the back of Luna’s head a one stage, blocks a spell meant for Ginny and she returns the favour, cursing someone behind him. He keeps the brilliant flash of her grin in the back of his mind, beside Luna’s hand soft in his, the whack between the shoulder blades for luck he’d received from Parvati, and the warmth of Seamus’ hug.

Then Harry’s dead, and Harry’s alive, and Voldemort is dead, and Dean’s brain breaks a little, because how can Voldemort be dead? After all the running and all the fighting and all the dying, can someone like Voldemort really _be_ dead? But there he is, on the floor, no longer a monster, just a man. Dean can’t stand the sight of him like that, as though he was the same as Lupin, or Colin, or Fred.

When Seamus finds him at one of the house tables he is just about ready to fall asleep for a week, or go for a run around the lake. He definitely feels like one or the other, he just hasn’t decided yet.

“Come on,” Seamus says, dragging him up. “McGonagall said she’s keeping the castle open, and a bunch of us are going back to the Room of Requirement. It’s where all my stuff is now anyway.”

“I don’t have any stuff,” Dean yawns. He doesn’t know if that’s important, but puts it out there, just in case. 

“Oh boy, I think you’re in worst shape than me.” He isn’t sure, but he thinks underneath the puffy black bruises Seamus is teasing him.

Dean lets Seamus coax and manhandle him upstairs, and into the Room, and onto a hammock in the corner. As soon as he’s horizontal his mind kicks into high gear. Then Seamus starts humming. He reaches out and takes Dean’s hand, uses it to rock his hammock gently.

Seamus’ humming is much nicer than his singing; words and volume turn what is almost melodic into a nightmare. But his humming is like stepping onto the Hogwarts Express in September. It has been nearly a year since he was anywhere that felt remotely like home. He yawns again, whispers something he hopes sounds like “don’t stop”, and falls asleep.

 

***

 

Ginny has recently put him onto early morning runs. She did this by showing up one morning and demanding he go running with her. Also he’s pretty sure he’s the only one who bothers to keep up with the pace she sets. 

There are a lot of things he doesn’t like about them. Actually, there is one thing he doesn’t like about them. The 5.30 am wake up call. He can live with the never-ending stream of consciousness from his running partner, he can live with going to a café he doesn’t particularly like because it is the only one that serves Ginny’s preferred carrot and ginger juice, he can even live with new blisters that have been haunting his feet for the last two weeks. But he really hates the 5.30 am wake up call.

The one thing that makes the early morning runs better are the showers that come at the end of them.

The bathroom in the flat he shares with Seamus fills with morning sunshine, the water pressure has finally been fixed, and he is having, quite possibly, the best shower ever. The best shower ever comes complete with a soundtrack, care of muggle radio. No matter how many years he spends in magical Britain, no matter how many magical bands Seamus and Ron try to get him into, he still believes that muggle music is better. He just won’t risk telling Ron that anymore.

He may need to stop singing S Club 7 songs in the shower though. That might be pushing it a little.

Seamus knocks on the wall his bedroom shares with the bathroom. Dean can hear footsteps that are only slightly muffled, so he must be stomping out into the hall. The banging is on the bathroom door this time.

“For the love of all that is good and pure in this world, will you PLEASE FIND ANOTHER SONG!”

Dean sings louder. No one ever said he wasn’t a shit.

_“Don’t you know, it’s true what they say, that life, it ain’t easy, BUT YOUR TIME’S COMING AROUND. SO DON’T YOU STOP TRYING!”_ He may actually punch the air, but no one else is in the bathroom, so no one can prove that – until Seamus comes bursting in, that is.

Dean barely has time to process Seamus’ presence in the bathroom before the radio has been turned down, and there is no buffer between them. Dean, being in the shower, is incredibly naked, and he would be more worried about that if they hadn’t shared a bathroom since they were eleven, and Seamus wasn’t mostly naked himself.

They stand there like that for a moment. Dean is under the shower still, not quite ready to let go of that last barrier, even if it is only water, but Seamus’ face is unreadable, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

“So, uh, would now be a good time to tell you I’m in love with you, or?”

Apparently Seamus is trying to kill him. Either kill him, or break his brain, he isn’t sure.

“If you want Bring It All Back to be our song, then sure. This is the perfect time.” He can almost decipher the look on Seamus’ face now. He looks to be somewhere between hope and shock, and just around the corner from paralysing fear. Dean can relate. “I should probably tell you I’ve been most of the way in love with you since I was seventeen then, right?”

He shuts off the water and steps out of the shower. He grabs his towel, mostly for something to do with his hands, and because if this is really happening right now he should probably dry himself off, or get Seamus wet. Similar amounts of water would be preferable.

“Are we actually going to have sex now?” Seamus asks. He almost pulls off casual, except his eyes almost as wide as his grin. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, slightly breathless. “Yeah, we are.”

 

***

 

“You have to make them good names,” Harry implores, gesticulating wildly with his champagne glass. Dean doesn’t remember why this is important, but he leans forward because Harry is using his most earnest voice. “None of the sentimental rubbish I’d come up with. Did I ever tell you Ginny made me sign something to say I would never name a child after Snape?”

Ron and Seamus both snort; Ron into his drink and Seamus into Dean’s shoulder. The sudden burst of warm air is not particularly pleasant, but the closeness is. He just got married. He married his best friend! In front of all of his other friends! His life is wild. 

“Imagine!” Harry’s glass lands loudly on the table. “I’d never name a kid after him, greasy bastard.”

He seems to need some sort of reassurance, so Dean leans forward and squeezes his arm.

“You’d never name your potential future child after Snape! How dare she accuse you of that kind of, of - ” he waves his hand around, as if he can grasp the word straight out of the air. “Treachery!” His voice is louder than he though, startling Seamus’ grandmother and great aunt on the next table. “Where is she?”

“Dancing with Neville and Hermione,” Ron points. Dean looks over to the area that has been cleared for dancing just in time to see Neville jump out of the way of Ginny’s wild feet.

“You know who you should name a kid after, though?” He says, turning back to the table.

“Who?”

Dean looks around, mostly to check that he has everyone’s attention, and is struck by how much he loves everyone here. At the table, at his wedding, everyone in this room is a person he loves a ridiculous amount. Lavender, looking beautiful in her blue Best Woman’s Dress, chosen to match Seamus’ tie, has her head in her hand, watching him with amused anticipation. Parvati is sitting in her lap, is dashing in her suit, and absolutely the best Best Woman he could have chosen. Harry and Ron are one drink away from singing, and two away from crying. Seamus is warm at his back.

He shakes his head, there is time for sentimentality when he doesn’t have a fantastic suggestion on the tip of his tongue.

“ _Lupin_.” There are nods from Ron and Seamus, and delighted or possibly teasing laughter from Lavender and Parvati, he lost his ability to tell the difference about an hour ago. It doesn’t matter, Dean has the best ideas, he doesn’t need them to validate that. “I mean at least you have a legitimate reason. He was family. I just thought he was fit.”

Seamus nods, and really, he is so glad he got to marry him. He really, really is. It is a testament to how much he loves Seamus that he still feels that way when he starts warbling, “ _Did you ever know that you’re my hero?”_ And that when Seamus stands up and backs towards the dance floor, eyes locked on Dean’s and still belting out a song he only half knows, Dean just laughs, lets the happiness bubble up and out of him, and follows him out in front of everyone.

Half a dozen people definitely get photos of the two of them drunkenly swaying, collapsing in on each other laughing. Hermione and his mother both definitely get video of Seamus’ terrible singing.

“Best wedding ever,” he whispers. Seamus beams up at him, and he can’t help but lean down to kiss him. It’s his prerogative, as one of the grooms.

“Yeah, definitely couldn’t top this. I think we’ll have to stay married, just to play it safe.”

“Yeah, just to play it safe.”

 

***

 

Dean did not think it was possible to feel this proud, for his heart to feel this full. He keeps being thoroughly surprised by his kids’ ability to make him feel more and more and more every time they do something incredible. Sometimes that something incredible is smile, sometimes it’s making him laugh until he cries, sometimes it’s Declan’s inability to see a hill and not run full pelt down to the bottom, sometimes it’s the first time Evie catches the snitch for Gryffindor. It happens all the time, and he is still, all these years later, caught off guard by the feeling. But he thinks that maybe, just maybe, watching them wrap a packed to the rafters venue around their little fingers, watching them play the hell out of their original songs in front of a sell out crowd is the most proud he’s ever been.

 “Our kids are so cool,” he says, unable to tear his eyes away from them. 

“I know! Can you believe how cool they are?” Seamus’ is practically vibrating out of his skin. If it was a couple of decades ago, Dean would be worried about anything flammable in their vicinity. Fortunately Seamus has outgrown his proclivity for pyrotechnics.

“No, I really can’t.”

“And we’re just not that cool, at all. How did we manage to raise not one, but two incredibly cool kids? When did they become cooler than us?”

 “If your answer isn’t ‘pretty much the day they were born’ you are kidding yourselves,” Parvati says. Dean forgives the slight on his obvious coolness because she is Evie’s godmother and required by law, probably, to defend her honour. Also, because she has just bought him a pint and it is foolish to bite the hand that feeds etcetera.

“If either of you for one second think you had anything to do with the coolness that is innate in both your children, you have another thought coming,” Lavender adds.

“I must say, I agree with Lavender.”

And that is probably the second most surprising thing to happen this evening. Minerva McGonagall, whisky in hand, sitting on a bar stool in a London pub, watching his kids’ first gig. Her response to his initial obvious shock was a dry, “as her namesake I thought it only right to attend Evelyn’s show”. He can definitely blame his death-by-shock on Seamus’ Evelyn Minerva idea – a dying man’s revenge.

And then, nothing else matters, because Evie puts her water bottle down and starts talking into the microphone again.

“We’d like to dedicate this next song to our dads. Thanks for all the music.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
